


the name of the game

by wheelspokes



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Atsumu's MIYA 11 National Team Jersey, Character Study, Gen, Light Angst, Miya Osamu-centric, a brief exploration of the miya twins after high school, or: how onigiri miya got its name
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:54:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29976972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheelspokes/pseuds/wheelspokes
Summary: Osamu can’t remember when he stopped wanting to play volleyball, just that he did.In which Osamu dreams of an onigiri restaurant and wonders if he'll grow apart from Atsumu without volleyball.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu & Miya Osamu
Comments: 7
Kudos: 73





	the name of the game

They have always been Atsumu-and-Osamu. 'Tsumu and 'Samu. Matching pajamas even when they’re in high school. A wing spiker and a setter, and as Atsumu spent more and more time practicing drills, a setter and an outside hitter. Two complementary hair dye colors. Inarizaki High School’s precious Miya twins whose fights were the cause of at least four different betting pools. An inseparable set according to Volleyball Monthly, and a set that should be separated at all times according to Aran. Japan’s top twins in the world of high school volleyball. 

Osamu can’t remember when he stopped wanting to play volleyball, just that he did. 

He remembers the thrum of a volleyball colliding with the palm of his hand and the resounding smack that echoes through the gym as he sends the ball hurtling back to earth and within bounds. He remembers spinning on his heels and seeing excitement erupt across Atsumu’s face, a reminder that if they’re together, they can do anything. 

He doesn’t want to live his life as Atsumu-and-Osamu. Atsumu doesn’t either, even if it’s something they’ll fight over at the end of their second year of high school before spending a year coming to terms with the inevitable. 

He remembers the thrill of volleyball, but he also remembers the comforting weight of rice in his palm and the rough nori wrap scratching at his fingertips as he presses, presses, and presses his ingredients together into a triangle. 

Like volleyball, cooking is a skill that he sharpens with time. It had taken Osamu weeks to time his serve before the final whistle; it takes him even longer to learn how to fry shrimp tempura. Like volleyball, cooking is a series of trial and error, an adventure featuring bumps in the road and satisfaction gripping his heart when he finally manages to perfect a technique. 

People always say things come naturally to Osamu. They can’t be more wrong, because Osamu stands at the threshold of something he likes to do and something he wants to do and doesn’t know how to take a step forward.

Atsumu dreams of volleyball. There’s a Vabo-chan stitched across the front of his pajama shirt, two volleyballs rolling beneath his desk, and an overflowing stack of Volleyball Monthly magazines on their coffee table. When his teacher hands him a future career form, Atsumu scrawls down _PRO VOLLEYBALL PLAYER_ in all three boxes and huffs when his teachers tell him to put the name of a college in at least one of the spaces. 

There’s a Vabo-chan stitched across the front of Osamu’s pajama shirt too, but his love for volleyball doesn’t burn as brightly as Atsumu’s. Osamu does not share his brother’s dream of signing a contract with a Division I V.League team and working tirelessly for a spot on the National Team and then for the Olympics. 

What Osamu dreams about is different: a small little restaurant bustling with activity, warm lighting and an even warmer atmosphere, and the best onigiri in not just the nation, but the entire world. He dreams of smiles, smiles because people ate _his_ food, smiles because he is Miya Osamu, pursuing his own dream that’s only tangentially related to Atsumu and volleyball.

Onigiri Osamu is a dream he carves into his heart, a dream he tailors until it can become his reality. 

His career sheet lists three different culinary schools. His homeroom teacher smiles and details the specifics of entrance criteria and exams. A list of what his next steps need to be is neatly printed across the back of his career sheet in red ink. Osamu walks back to his classroom, folds his paper in half, and shoves it into the bottom of his bag. 

When they walk home after volleyball practice ends that night, Atsumu asks him how his career consultation went. Osamu thinks of how Atsumu’s career survey is balled up and sitting in their trash can, of how he plans on reading through his one more time before bed tonight, of how he still needs to tell Atsumu that he didn’t write anything related to volleyball.

Atsumu stares at him expectantly. The harsh glow of the streetlamps blurs his features, reminding Osamu that Atsumu doesn’t know about his dream, that Atsumu is the only one who doesn’t know. 

“I’ll tell you tomorrow,” Osamu says, and the February chill is still thick enough to make him struggle with the next breath he draws in. “Tomorrow morning, when we’re at practice.”

Atsumu doesn’t question the secrecy, instead listing off different teams they might sign contracts with. Osamu thinks of the paper in his bag and steels his heart for tomorrow. 

...

He tells Atsumu about culinary school as soon as they step into the gym. Once, Osamu had stood by the door and told Atsumu his love for the sport was brighter than his own. Now, Osamu finds himself flailing and fighting to aim another punch at his brother. 

“I’ll be happy,” he promises as Suna pulls him away, “much happier than you.”

The words sound hollow even to him.

...

The end of his volleyball career was always going to be Spring High in his third year of high school. But their victory against Karasuno is short-lived, and Kamomedai knocks them aside for their turn to battle Itachiyama. Osamu watches Atsumu’s face crumple as they step off the court and wonders if this could have been prevented if he had thought less about onigiri and more about volleyball. 

That’s not really fair to either of them. Atsumu has a dream and Osamu has one too. Here, at the last official volleyball game they’ll play together, their paths will diverge as soon as they step off the court. Maybe the process has even already started. 

Atsumu doesn’t denounce false praise this year. Judging by the way his shoulders are shaking and the tears slowly streaking down his cheeks, he knows it was never the case, not when Atsumu worked so hard to lead Inarizaki here.

“Thank you for your support,” Osamu tells their team’s supporters. If he takes a second longer than everyone else to snap out of his bow to whisper it again for Atsumu, no one has to know.

There are scouts from professional teams and universities here to hand pamphlets to students and lure them with promises of contracts. The recruiter from the MSBY Black Jackals takes a step forward to where Inarizaki is scattered along the side of the court and collecting their belongings before the next team takes the court for warmups. 

Osamu pushes Atsumu in the recruiter’s direction. “We’ll bring the team to the locker room. Take your time.”

The last memory Osamu has of volleyball is watching his brother’s back fade out of sight before he turns and steps off the court he once loved. 

...

There is a life he once thought he’d have. In his first year of junior high, his mother caved under the weight of his and Atsumu’s wide eyes and incessant pleads and purchased a subscription for Volleyball Monthly. The two of them had spent an entire afternoon flipping through the first issue and pointing at athletes in awed whispers. 

By the second year of high school, it was Atsumu who paid for Volleyball Monthly with his allowance.

Now, Osamu opens his mailbox to find the first issue that comes with his yearly subscription. Atsumu’s smug face swallows the entire magazine cover. Osamu might gag if he wasn’t busy dealing with a surge of overwhelming pride. 

(The cover will be framed and displayed in their family’s living room. Osamu will never confess it was him and not his mother who did it.)

It’s strange not being with Atsumu. It’s a wonderful sort of freedom that leaves him feeling melancholy. At culinary school, no one calls him Atsumu on accident. Osamu is fairly sure none of them know Atsumu exists. 

Atsumu is still a second string setter for the MSBY Black Jackals and Osamu is just one student at a culinary school tucked away into the heart of Tokyo. Atsumu is still sending video clips of his serves and tosses to the National Team scouts and Osamu is still selling onigiri made in his kitchen to a handful of friends and classmates.

The process of starting a business is incredibly complex. It’s not enough to just have good food, and sometimes Osamu isn’t even sure if he has that. The business and management classes his culinary school offers aren’t thorough enough, and when he’s invited to survey a real restaurant during its rush hour, he wonders if he can build his dream into reality too. 

Things have always come naturally to Osamu, but this seems to be the exception. And that’s exactly why he wants to do this, why there’s a fire blazing in his heart and seeking to escape the confines of his body. It’s something he has to do by himself and for himself. It wouldn’t be much of a dream if it was effortless. 

He works for it. He studies harder for his classes and volunteers to work more restaurant shifts. He cooks and cooks until Atsumu cries after tasting a single bite of his food because it’s so fucking good. 

Slowly, little by little, he begins to build Onigiri Osamu. 

The name Onigiri Osamu drifted into his mind while sleeping in his Japanese literature class in high school, and it’s been stuck in his head ever since. In his dreams, there are laminated menus with _Onigiri Osamu_ printed neatly across the top, and the character for Osamu is stamped onto the wooden sign hanging above the restaurant door. He’s even already commissioned Kita to write the name in his perfect calligraphy for a logo. 

Osamu is editing his first draft of his business license application when his phone rings. He knows it’s Atsumu without checking his screen. Maybe it’s their infamous Miya twin communication network at play. Maybe it’s Osamu connecting the dots when Atsumu has spent the past three weeks chattering about his tryouts for the National Team. 

“‘Samu!” Atsumu’s screech manages to be more ear-splitting than Osamu’s phone ringtone. Osamu knows his brother well enough to wait five seconds before lifting his phone to his ear.

“Hey loser. Did you fail your tryouts if you’re calling me this early?”

Osamu can practically hear Atsumu’s frown over the receiver. But he’s known Atsumu for as long as he lived, known his tenacity and stubbornness and drive. He’s known — still knows and always will know — Atsumu will succeed. 

In high school, after his big fight with Atsumu at the end of their second year, Aran had pulled him aside and told him he was Atsumu’s biggest blessing. Osamu laughed it off then. How could Atsumu’s defining feature be love? Four years later, Osamu leans back in his chair, prepares himself to hear whether Atsumu has made the National Team, and thinks he understands what Aran meant all that time ago.

“You could be a little more excited to hear what I have to say,” Atsumu scowls.

Osamu rolls his eyes. Of course Atsumu would be this dramatic. “They’d be fools to not put you on the National Team ‘Tsumu. You’re one of the best setters with some of the best serves in the V.League. It’s a big shame that they’ve waited this long to put you on the roster.”

Atsumu cackles. “Does my biggest fan want my autograph then?”

“I’d get your autograph to sell it, but I think I’d have to pay other people to take it off my hands.” 

Osamu snaps the lid of his laptop shut after making sure any changes to his business license application have been saved. The soft click is drowned out by the shuffling on Atsumu’s end as he struggles to turn his video on, and Osamu barely manages to disguise his laugh as a cough when Atsumu holds his phone at the most unflattering angle possible.

He receives a glare courtesy of their twin telepathy in action before Atsumu explains why he turned their simple phone call into a video call. “Believe it or not, I wasn’t calling to tell you I made it on to the National Team. I actually got the invitation a few weeks ago. I’m calling to show you my jersey.”

“I couldn’t care less about your new red number thirteen jersey,” Osamu says. It’s the worst lie he’s told, and Atsumu knows it. The framed magazine cover of Atsumu in his MSBY Black Jackals jersey is still the centerpiece of their living room wall collage. 

A sinister grin takes over Atsumu’s face. “My number isn’t thirteen. Guess what it is.”

If he doesn’t indulge Atsumu, this will only get worse. Osamu sighs and tries to think of numbers that have even the slightest connection to Atsumu.

“Please don’t tell me you fought with your teammates to get jersey number one in an attempt to remind yourself of being Inarizaki’s capitan.”

“What? Why would I want to take Ushiwaka’s jersey number away from him? The guy’s been aiming for that number for a while now.”

Osamu has to think a little harder for his second guess. “Is it seven for your second year of high school, or maybe the number you wore in our first year?”

Atsumu’s smile stretches wider as he shakes his head. “You might be closer.”

It isn’t ten or five for their birthday. It isn’t twenty-eight, which had been Atsumu’s favorite number when they were five for some arbitrary reason, either. Eight is an incorrect guess. Fifteen, four, and five join the list shortly after.

Osamu admits defeat. He can’t afford for his call with Atsumu to drag on for too long when he has an essay to write for tomorrow morning. Not even Atsumu’s smug smirk can make him take back his resignation and continue guessing.

Atsumu tugs at the collar of his jersey and makes a show out of flipping his camera to show off his reflection in the bathroom mirror. “Your guess of seven was the closest. I was actually going to choose seven at first, but then I overheard another one of the newbies mention that they wanted that number, and I’m not going to pick a fight over a jersey number. And then I remembered that my jersey will say ‘Miya’ across the back, and I guess I’ve always wanted us to play more volleyball together and that I want you to be proud of me, because I ended up choosing eleven for you —

“‘Samu, are you crying?”

It’s only after Atsumu’s question sinks in that Osamu realizes the corners of his eyes are wet and tears are slowly streaking down his cheeks. How can he help it when Atsumu’s jersey boldly declares _Miya 11_ , when he’s wearing Osamu’s number to bind them together once more?

“I didn’t think you’d hate it this much,” Atsumu says, quickly trying to take back all the words he’s said since their call began. There’s a jacket bundled up on his floor, and he picks it up now and shrugs it on to cover his jersey. “I can’t get a new jersey number until next season, but I probably won’t play much anyways, so you don’t have to cry every time you’re forced to see me in a game.”

“I don’t,” Osamu says. “Hate it, I mean. I like it even if you’re being a sentimental dork.”

Volleyball had been something they did together before Osamu split from their path to chase after a dream of his own. A part of him always looked forward to his timer counting down until the end of high school where he was free to become his own person away from Atsumu. They shared matching pajamas, pudding cups, and a volleyball team for eighteen years, and Osamu hadn’t wanted to share anything else with him.

Osamu realizes now that his current dream isn’t something he’s doing alone. For better or for worse, he’ll never not have Atsumu. They don’t attend the same school or share a bunk bed anymore, and yet Atsumu is still with him all the same. 

Despite his complaints over the lack of a brother’s discount, Atsumu has bought boxes of onigiri. He’s gifted Osamu a shirt with the silhouette of an onigiri stitched across the corner. Atsumu offers to visit the bank with him to secure loans, offers to speak with his team’s management to see how Osamu can set up a stand during V.League matches. He’s supported Osamu every step of the way. 

“You better like it,” Atsumu taunts, words marred by a crackle in his throat as he struggles to not cry too. He can already tell their parents will have them take a family photo with Atsumu wearing his new National Team jersey. 

“I do. I really do. And ‘Tsumu, I always will be proud of you.”

Osamu’s teardrops are still blurring his vision when they end their call and he swipes through his phone for another contact. He finds the card after a few seconds of searching, and he takes another minute to even out his breathing before he hits the call button.

“Hello Osamu. How are you doing?” Kita asks.

He sucks in another deep breath before speaking. “I think I want to change the name of my restaurant.”

He can’t see Kita’s face right now, but he thinks he hears the edges of a smile in his voice. Ever the all-knowing one, Kita must have predicted this. “I haven’t started drafting anything yet, so I could work something out. What would you like?”

Once, all he wanted was to be away from Atsumu. Now, he thinks of dyeing his hair silver to match Atsumu’s gold, of the suit he already has prepared for the Jackals’ end of the season party, of a red jersey with his number emblazoned across the back to connect him to a sport he still cherishes and a brother he’ll always, always love. 

“Onigiri Miya.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was something I had wanted to write for a while, and then after I finished it a few months ago, I completely forgot about it until now. But here it is! Hopefully no one else has done this, because I had this planned for a long time. I gave Atsumu a character study before, so now Osamu can get one too. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! You can find me on twitter as @myo_caron


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